“But … Why didn’t you tell me you and Ben were having such bad trouble?”
“Because you would have told me to leave. And I would have. You know, sometimes marriage is iron. Sometimes it’s tissue paper. And I think the times it’s tissue paper are when you need to keep things to yourself. Or you can end up making a mistake that you’ll regret forever. Do you know what I mean?”
Irene nods. Yes, she does. Now.
26
Outside, the rain is coming down so hard, John feels as though it might come all the way through the roof and the flat above to soak him. He talks louder into the phone. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it’s raining here,” he tells Amy.
“Is it? It’s raining here, too.”
“Good for your garden.”
“Bad for walking dogs, though.”
“… You got him?”
“I got him.” John can hear the smile in her voice. He’s a little miffed; he’d thought she would wait for him to get the dog she’d shown him. But apparently she hadn’t understood that he might have liked that. Or hadn’t cared. Well, maybe he doesn’t even want a dog, even part of one. He’s been thinking that there are some advantages to not having pets. You can travel far more easily, that’s for sure, and maybe he would like to travel more often, after all. Now that he’s getting older. Weren’t you supposed to travel more when you got older? Maybe Irene was onto something when she complained about staying home all the time, all those years ago.
“So … did you name him?”
“I did.” Another thing John might have wanted to participate in.
“And?”
“His name is Dickens. And I think he’s going to be great. Right now, he’s … Well, he’s a puppy.”
John hears a key turning in the lock and tells Amy, “I think Sadie just came home.”
“Oh, okay, we’ll talk later,” Amy says, and hangs up before he can say goodbye.
John lies still for a moment, phone in hand, trying to gauge this: Was she angry at him for wanting to talk to the daughter he would be leaving again soon? Was she simply trying to accommodate his need to get off the phone?
“Sadie?” he hears Irene say.
Because it’s not Sadie who just came in. As he had known it would not be; Sadie is in her room, learning to use the apps on the new iPhone he bought her. But he hadn’t wanted to tell Amy he wanted off the phone because his ex-wife had come home.
He comes out into the hall and sees Irene standing there, dripping wet. Her hair is flattened to her cheeks, her clothes soaked, her purse dripping steadily.
“Hi,” he says.
“It’s raining,” she says, breathlessly.
“Oh? I hadn’t noticed.”
She laughs and takes off her sodden jacket, hangs it on the coat tree. For a moment she stands there in the little puddle she has made, as if wondering what to do next.
“Want a towel?” John asks.
She nods gratefully.
He goes to the linen closet, searches for the biggest one he can find, and brings it to her. “You know, I’ve heard that an umbrella comes in handy in situations like this.”
“Overrated,” Irene says. “It’s kind of fun getting this wet.”
Her eyes are sparkling. She’s happy. It’s the first time he’s seen her this way since he arrived. She towels off her hair, starts in on her neck, her arms. “You’re going to need another towel,” he says, and goes to get one.
He starts to hand it to her but instead bends down and begins drying her legs himself.
“John,” she says quietly, taking the towel from him.
He steps back, leans against the wall, crosses his arms.
“Where’s Sadie?” Irene asks.
“In her room, in apps heaven, I imagine. I got her an iPhone.”
“We need to talk.”
“I was going to get her one anyway. For when she starts school. Now I don’t have to mail it. Is that all right with you?”
She looks sharply at him. “What’s wrong with you?” She keeps her voice low, so Sadie can’t hear, gestures toward the kitchen, and he follows her there.
“What are you so pissed off about?” she asks after they’ve gone through the swinging door.
He doesn’t know. Because she looks so pretty all wet. Because he has to leave his daughter again. Because Amy bought a dog without him. “I thought you were mad at me for buying her a phone.”
“She needed one. I’m glad you got her one. I think it’s nice.”
“So … what do we need to talk about, then?”
She points to the banquette. “Want to sit down?”
“Nah, it’s okay.”
She sits, and looks up at him. “I’ve decided to ask Ron and his mom to dinner tomorrow night. I wanted to know if you thought it was a good idea.”
“Yeah, I think it is a good idea. Is that all?”
“Will you sit down?”
He shrugs. “What? It’s a good idea. What do you want me to say?”
“Fine. We won’t talk about it.”
“Irene. You asked me about something; I said it was a good idea; why do we now have to talk about it? What’s there to talk about? I mean, after the dinner, I’m sure there’ll be something to talk about. Unless you want to consult with me on the menu. Which would certainly be a first.”
“Okay, John. I am now going to tell you something you’ve heard from me a million times. I cannot talk to you. Why is that?”
“Because you have to make everything so complicated, Irene!”
“Well, forgive me, but I think our eighteen-year-old daughter having gotten married after a traumatic experience does have its complicated aspects. And perhaps may be a subject that’s worth devoting some discussion to, whether we focus on the fact that she refuses therapy, or that the boy she married will soon be sitting at our table with his mother and we haven’t a clue what we might say as a show of—”
“I’m going for a walk,” he says.
He grabs an umbrella from the stand and heads out into the street. He’ll take the bus downtown and back. He’ll ride around, look at some buildings.
After he reaches the corner, a bus comes almost immediately. John settles into an empty seat at the back and looks out the window. He thinks about last night, when he couldn’t sleep and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. He was as quiet as he could be, hoping he wouldn’t wake Irene. Tiptoeing past on his way back to the bedroom, he heard her whisper his name.
“Did I wake you?” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“I was awake. I never sleep anymore.”
“Yeah you do.”
“I know, but not like before.”
He moved over to the sofa, sat on the floor with his back to it. He could feel Irene watching him, and, after a moment’s consideration, he moved his hand back toward her and she took hold of it.
“I feel so bad,” she whispered.
“Just remember,” he said. “It could have been so much worse. What if that lunatic had—”
“I know, don’t say it. Don’t even say it. But she got married. And it’s just not right. It won’t work, I know it won’t. And then she’ll have to get divorced.”
“To say nothing of the possibility that she’ll get pregnant,” John said.
“I keep thinking she is pregnant. I asked her, and she got all huffy and said no.”
“I asked her, too. Same reaction. Only she added, ‘Some people marry for love. You should try it sometime.’ ”
“She said that?”
“Yeah.” He started to turn around and look at her, then didn’t. This was nice, the way they were talking to each other. Better not rock the boat.
“They don’t even know each other,” Irene said.
“I told her that, too.”
“I mean, we at least knew each other very well.”
Now he does turn around. “Do you think so, Irene?”
“Yes! Don’t you? We knew each other. We still do know each
other.”
“What’s my favorite color?” John asked.
She laughed.
“No, what is it?”
“It’s … Is it blue?”
“It’s green.”
“Well, okay. Sorry. But what does that prove? I mean, what’s my favorite color?”
“Your favorite color? You say it’s red. But it’s actually turquoise.”
“No, John, it’s red.”
“So how come you never buy red clothes or red things or wear red lipstick or even eat red food?”
“I eat beets. I love beets.”
“Look at all the dishes you bought that were turquoise: all the bowls and plates and platters. Look at your jewelry. Look at your artwork, your clothes. Your favorite color seems to be turquoise, Irene.”
She lay flat again. “This is stupid. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Hey, I have an idea! Let’s talk about Sadie.”
“Yeah, let’s do.”
Silence, and then, “John? I have to ask you something. Do you think this is my fault?”
“What, her getting married?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if that’s true, it’s both of our faults.”
“I’m the one who raised her,” Irene said.
“I had her, too, for the first eight years of her life,” John said. “And I’m involved with her now. I don’t see her every day, but we talk a lot.”
“I know. She likes you better. She always did. I shouldn’t have taken her from you. I should have let you raise her.”
“You know what, Irene? I look at Sadie, and I think you should take a bow. I mean it.” He kissed her hand, intending for it to be the only affectionate physical gesture he might offer, intending it to be friendly and not intimate, but it moved deep inside him, the touch of her skin against his mouth. He stood. “I’m going to sleep.”
For a long time, in a silence sparked by possibility, she said nothing. And then she murmured something that sounded like okay, and turned away from him. He went to the bedroom and lay on top of the covers, wide awake. He looked at the outline of perfume bottles on her dresser, at her hairbrush lying there, next to an ornately engraved silver mirror her grandmother had given her for her tenth birthday, which her mother wanted to take away from her, saying it was inappropriate for a child so young. But her grandmother insisted that Irene would appreciate it, which she did, and apparently still does. He went to the dresser and picked up the brush. It was heavy in his hand, cool to the touch. He wondered what Irene thought about when she brushed her hair; it was still thick and really quite beautiful. Still a deep auburn, though apparently she had some help in that regard. He had noticed more and more silver showing up in his own hair. But you didn’t see him trying to hide it.
He put down the brush, looked at himself in the mirror. He straightened his pajama top, hiked up his bottoms. Then he came back out into the living room. She was sleeping, now. He sat in a chair and watched her. He looked at the curve of her hip and the spread of her hair across the pillow, and he thought of other times he had done this, stood watching the rise and fall of her chest, trying sometimes to interpret the movements in her face caused by fleeting thoughts or dreams. He thought of the night he brought her home from the hospital after Sadie was born, how deeply she slept then; he couldn’t rouse her to eat, but her eyes would fly open at the faintest whimper from her child. He thought of a time they’d had a pretty spectacular night of sex, and she’d fallen asleep in her getup as she called it, a red, lacy nightgown he’d seen on a mannequin and brought home to her on Valentine’s Day. She didn’t like to fall asleep with it on; she feared Sadie seeing her in it. Most often, she would change back into her usual sleepwear: one of his T-shirts and a pair of her flannel pajama bottoms. The other day, he’d seen one of those T-shirts in the laundry basket and he’d been glad for it.
He thought about going to watch Sadie sleep, but there was only so much a man could take in. Or bear.
“End of the line!” the bus driver says.
Indeed.
John sits still for a moment, lost in regret, and then sees that the driver is checking him out in the rearview, trying to see if he’s okay.
John stands quickly and holds up a hand. “Thanks!” he says, and goes onto the street. The sun is out now, the city brilliant in the light, and his heart lifts in spite of himself. Give the city its due: it actually is a dazzling place. He’ll walk around, see what’s for sale. Just for fun. Just for the relief of putting business in his brain.
27
For some time, Irene sits at the kitchen table, thinking. Oil and water, she and John seem to be, even now. She doesn’t know why.
She makes a cup of tea and nurses the idle hope that Sadie will hear the noise and come into the kitchen, seeking out her company. She doesn’t, of course. She stays in her room. And why not, when the pattern has been that all Irene does is try to talk her out of something she’s fiercely committed to? Irene was convinced that Sadie had been—possibly was still—in shock, that she had (again, understandably) rushed to the illusion of safety that her boyfriend and marriage represented. But now she was home! She was safe! She could take in a breath, reassess the situation. Surely she could see that she had made a mistake.
But now Irene wonders if the person in shock isn’t herself, if her own ability to reason and perceive isn’t hampered by a maelstrom of feelings, by her sense that she’s not quite in her own body, not able to employ any kind of rational thought. In the end, her daughter, her healthy and intelligent and strong daughter, is eighteen, and she’s gotten married. Is that the end of the world?
She finishes her tea, washes out her cup, and on the way to Sadie’s room decides to offer her daughter the gift of truly listening. Sadie knows how Irene has felt about this marriage; she seems to understand the reasons for all her mother’s objections. But maybe Irene doesn’t really understand how Sadie feels.
On the way home, Irene thought that, of all the terrible fates that can befall one’s child, getting married too young didn’t even register. John has helped her to see that. Never mind that the two of them can’t seem to find a place of lasting comfort; he does help her gain perspective when it comes to their daughter. He has always done that. Damn it; she likes him, why can’t they get along?
She knocks on Sadie’s door.
“Yes.”
“It’s me. Can I come in?”
“Yeah!”
Okay, Irene thinks. She’s in a good mood. Don’t blow it.
When she opens the door, Sadie is sitting cross-legged on her bed, making a list. “What are you doing?” Irene asks.
Sadie puts the list aside, covers it with a magazine. “Just trying to think of things we’ll need.”
“Can I see?”
Sadie hesitates, then hands her mother the list. Dishware, Irene reads. Cheap vacuum. Dresser (use crates?). Mattress. Two lamps.
Irene’s eyes fill, and she puts down the list and reaches for her daughter. Sadie is stiff at first, and then she is not. She hugs her mother back, then pulls away to sit expectantly before her.
“When we first got married,” Irene tells Sadie, “we got so many presents. A lot of fancy stuff that I had no use for, really: Silver trays, fancy cutlery. Cheese boards and fondue pots. Ice tongs, for Pete’s sake! But you know what I did like? I liked the little juice glasses with oranges on them. They were the kind of thing you could get at the dime store for next to nothing, and I just loved them. I used to set the table at night for breakfast the next morning. Two coffee cups, two plates, two forks, knives, and spoons. I’d fold the paper napkins into triangles, and stick them in the tines of the forks, very fancy, you know.”
Sadie smiles.
“Someone gave us an electric coffeepot, and I would set that up, too, put in the grounds and the water the night before, and then leave it on the table ready to be plugged in, so convenient for when you wanted another cup! I thought we’d sit there every morning like Ward
and June Cleaver.”
Sadie’s smile fades. “Didn’t you?”
Irene shrugs. “Not so much. We hardly ever had breakfast together until you came along.”
“Why not?”
“Well, mostly because your father didn’t like to eat breakfast.”
“He does now.”
“Well, he didn’t then.” Her voice has gotten thin, edgy.
“I believe you, Mom.”
“I’m sorry. I just …
“Okay. Let me see if I can say this. I think what’s bothering me most about your being married is that I’m scared for you, Sadie. That’s all. I want you to be happy in a marriage, and marriage is just so hard.”
Sadie studies her mother’s face. “Why? Why do you think it’s so hard?”
Irene looks across the room and out the window, where the sky has cleared and a redemptive ray of sunlight brings out subtle pastel colors in glass that is normally clear. She can smell the scent of after-rain, that hopeful mix of concrete and water and leaves and fresher air. She wishes, suddenly, that she were sitting on a bench outside alone, nothing on her mind but a jostling mass of birds at her feet, going after the crumbs she throws. Because Sadie’s question is too big, it’s too difficult to answer.
Finally, she says, “Here’s an example. Your dad and I had been married about two weeks when I came home from work late—I used to do that now and then, stay late and catch up on paperwork. And after I left the hospital, I’d gone to get these smoked sausages that I liked. I was really hungry, and I wanted to cook up some of those sausages when I got home. Your dad was sleeping and I tried to be really quiet, but he came into the kitchen and said, ‘What are you doing, Irene?’ I still remember exactly how he said it. He was so pissed off, standing there squinting in the light. And I told him I was making sausages, I was hungry. He said, ‘It’s ten-thirty!’ and I said, ‘Oh, okay. I’ll just tell my hunger that you said that.’ And he went back to bed, and I just stood there thinking, I can’t cook sausages late at night anymore. And indeed, I never did again.”